Better than Saturn

Ibises

at the Cascades near Leuramy girlfriend and Iwere looking over the valleyat sunset and all the birdsstarted singing and callingand whistling to each otherthey switched on like a radio

they do it at sunrise tooof course and we thoughtthere must be a ring of itup through China and Russiaand down the other sideall around the worldeven over the oceansthe wide winged birdsand the flightless birdson the sprinkled islands

Earth spins througha bracelet of bird songit's better than Saturn

Duck work

a serious looking mother duckof a drab brown sparrow colourwith ten creamy white ducklingseach about the size of two thumbsis skimming past the end of a jettythe seven people there rise and lookOh yes Down there I can see Lovelythen resettle to wait for the ferrythe ducklings buoyant and obedientpush their little thumbnail feetexhaustingly through the waterthey're packed tight to the motheron the side of her away from the jettyand away from the clucky bored people

strict mother duck leads her broodto a new nest or a mud flat lunchand swims just fast enough that theycreamy and fluffy and breathing hardlearn water sense and duck strivingshe's wise and calm and as they growand darken she'll tell them ofpreening and feeding and safetyand all the subtleties of duck work

Sulphur crested cockatoos

in the tree near my deckthree white cockatooswait Hitchcock quietfor me to feed them

then one unfurlsits sulphur crestas an Opera Houseof bananas

after the sun had stroked their headsit left itself behindin freehand plumes

what did the cockatoosay to Leunigdrorr drorr

is the one who isthe largest todaythe same one who wasthe largest yesterday

they waittherefore they think

Rare bird

a small birdlike a pardalotea chat a robinflies past and landsin the lemon tree

how curious it isits little headswivels constantlyits chest isgreenish blacklike an avocadowith a similar curve and taperthough smaller

my heart growsto a planetI offer total loveswear I willdo anything for itbut though I beg quietlyplease stay longerit hits the wing

Magpies

. . . they are born pink, naked and blind with large feet, a short broad beak and a bright red throat

gymnorhina tibicen tibicen(bare-nosed flute-player flute-player)the 'nominate' formso musical it had to be named twicegymnorhina tibicen tyrannica(bare-nosed flute-player bully)a large white backed sub-species found in Victoria(though according to localsnot lately in Euroa)seven others at last count

while it is slowly stalkingacross the nearby table(weathered rough grey)at the outdoor restaurantit is also classifying youwardle wardle kookoo(sitting bulky curious)many unable to forage for themselvesgather in small numbers to be fedby the more active members of the tribe

short femur (above knee)and relatively long lower legrestrict its ability to hop(c/f e.g. the blue/brown wren)hence the constant walkingwith brief bursts of running

up North they have learnedto flip cane-toads onto their backsand rip into their belliesthe cane-toads weep at this point(who cares) go magpies

before they learn aboutgetting-out-of-the-waymany littlies/new-bornsbecome country road-killGreg Hughes of Euroacalls October-Novemberthe season of young dead magpies

given they'll eat almost anythingand tolerate usthey've a pretty good chance

. . . complex melodious warbles pitched at 2-4 KHz do not carry long distances up to 70 minutes calls recorded for the approach of eagles and monitor lizards

we've all seen a young onestrutting back and forthcuddling its aural teddy bearwe've all been gratefulfor the Christmas presentof endless magpie dawnsand wondered at the enigmaof a black and white birdwith a rainbow songthat blasts the murk of humanself-pity from the airand how their sound-bitesare far too long brightand relevant for tv news grabs

they are fleet of flute

they ripple Monet through the air

Met the chicken

crossing the main roadfor my fish and chips the other dayI met a chicken on the refuge islandthe traffic was treacherouswe stood there togetherlooking left and right and left againshe was a good looking birdsoap powder whiteyou wouldn't say plumpbut her feathers hada healthy suede like glow

we started talkingshe was magnanimousabout the outlooks from the houseson the North East side of the streetbut disappointed in their backyardsall wheelie bins red brick paversHills Hoists everywhereand really bad scratchingwent on to say she'd heardencouraging comments aboutover-the-road I didn't want to raiseany false hope sin herbut mentioned that a few placeson the South West stripwhere I lived had soft lawnslily ponds veggie gardenssome even had compost heapsin addition the back roomssoaked up the heat all dayand made the living well easy

Cool she clucked can't waitthe traffic thinnedwe promised to keep in touchbefore skipping off dodgem quickto our respective other sidesI paused outside the fish shopand turned around to seethat she'd made it safely overand was already peckingat one of the better looking doors

Bird happy

down the back of the yarda small bird grey wings black stripesa patch of yellow on its backand a long honeyeater's beakwas having a ricochet panicinside the nettingtied around a plum tree

I wondered how to set it freewithout slashing the netthere was a bit of an openingtowards the base of the treewhere the net wasn't too tightand I started to think about howto shoo it down therewhen another one came byand hovered around like visiting timeeach was calling to the other

I can't know if it saw the holeor was told by the second birdor just random luckbut before I could do anythingthe trapped bird worked its way outand the two of them scrammed offas if they were late for something

sonic booms of bird-happytore the air to shreds

two Ibises land in the backyardwhite horizontal teardropson red legs like short stiltson top of all thatthere's a grey headwith an unnecessarily elongated beakin the curve of a quillalso grey and . . .

(what do they find to eat in mudand do they ever get stuck in a wormholeand snap the beak trying to pull it out)

. . . or if perhaps a carver had shaped ithe would run his hand along the curveeye it in all directionsdeclare it finishedand perfect enough to make music

my little black and white catis optimistically stalking them

their heads are jigging back and forthas if sniffing out what lies aheadsnatching a breath of what's to comeand then pulling backfor a lungful of the certainties of now

they are rock and rolling in and out of soonmesmerising themselves and me and the catwho on reassessment is content to watchthese feathered metronomesconducting the futurethrough their long improbable beaks

King parrot

you couldn't blame a King parrotpicking through its velvetyred green and blue-purple feathersif it thought the bush was drabthe fungi that glow scarletand yellow are mostly smalland out of the waythe best flowers have short seasonsthe honeycomb brightnessof freshly cracked sandstonesoon fades into the backgroundof blurred dirty pastels

of dusty greens greys and browns

there's one nowit flaps off a skinny branchand colour bombs the bushthe outspread wings reveala light green zigzag bardistinctly King parrota thick line of unique blue-purpledivides the main red and greenand that red is not the redof fire engines embers or carnationsnor is that green the greenof apples bottles or Irelandit strafes the McCubbin coloured bushwith an iridescent blurof King parrot redand King parrot greenand you couldn't blame it

. . . but SHE stops mid squeezeof a bright red berryturns into the sun which ignites the salmon sub-plotof her pale grey pine-cone bodydips he head down my wayand asks Where's your tail?All the other wallabies have one

Grubs and things

most of the world's small islandsare in the South Pacificand on those islandswhere there are few predatorsmany of the land-based birdshave shrunk their wingsand don't bother to fly any moreit's too strenuous and anywayfar easier to pick grubs and thingsout of the ground and leaf-rotthan catch mosquitos fliesand grasshoppers mid-air

a lot of them have developedthe response of standing stock stilltrying not breath or blinkif they feel threatenedso they probably have somethinglike a race memoryof being the hunted ones

when they think the threat has passedthey'll move once moreresume their lifelooking for foodbuilding a nestseeking a mate

after a whileit all starts again

Chicken shed

the five fat chooks run outthree brown ones two white onesand Bonzer the little golden bantamthey all start raking up the dirtone looks at me while it's scratchinglike a child showing offI clean out the shedscrape the concrete floorand hose away the old haywith their shit stuck through itthen spread out the new hayand pack some into their nest boxes

meanwhile they've scratched holesin the soft damp dirt nearbythey sit down in their holesand rub dirt into their feathersthen stay still with their feathersand wings at odd anglesas if their wings might be brokenor they look as if they might be sickor even dying but they get upand wander off togetherBonzer always following behindthey mutter to themselvesin repetitious chook talksomething about the sky anda big catastropheI don't believe them

I do a few odd jobs elsewherepaint a door weed a gardenthey wander all over the placemy midweek casual day flies pastand soon enough it's time to collectbread and lettuce and cabbageand call them back into Cackleberry HouseI start calling Here chooky Here chookyand find myself talking to themas they follow me into the shedthough by now they must knowI'll lock the door and leave them inperhaps they don't mindrealising they're safer that way

little Bonzer is always the lastshe runs in with a few crackly screeksand a fluff and flourishof her clipped wings

Yellow tailed black cockatoos

we heard the noise firsta drummy rapid thumpinglike a helicopterthen looked up in timeto see the invasionsix black cockatooswith yellow barred tailsand yellow around their eyesswooped down from nowhereand took over the trees in front of us

high in a fork one by itselffurther along the same branchmore exposed and easier to seeanother by itselfclose by in a second treeat the end of a dead branchtwo together kissing andfrolicking like loversin a third tree a youngstersquawked and squawkedhounding a larger one

we'd left the track and picked our way to the shoulderof a thickly wooded Blackheath valleythe ground was steep and roughmossy sandstone and hollowsof leaf mould broken twigs and so onwe didn't dare move in casewe frightened them and our legsbegan to ache as we strainedto keep still on the awkward groundwe held hands supporting each othercraning our upper bodiesto get a better look at them

we wished we could suddenlybecome gentle aliens lift floatextend ourselves silentlyonto the branches wherethe big black cockatoos werethey would amble towards usleft claw right claw left clawtilt their yellow patched headsside to side and greet us with a quiet. . . crarck . . . crarck-crarckour minds would flow into oneand share the story ofour different ways of being

but no we can't talk to birds yetthey sit loud and peacefulin the leafy branches and we standquiet and awkward on the ground

we watched and listenedas they talked to each otherthe lovers circled beak to beakand chattered in soft scratchycockatoo languagethe kid squawked on and onall the time theyseemed to call and answerand interrupt each otheruntil one of them made . . . a directive . . . an orderand the others went quietthen it sprung off its branchand thumped awaythrough the blue airalong the side of the valley

less than a minute later the loverstook off in the same directionand soon afterwardsthe remaining three flew outwe saw the whole groupbriefly on the other side of the valleyand could hear the youngstercarrying on for a long time

we found a large flat rockclose by and stood there hugging each other beforeheading up to the track again